Princess Trinity

Chapters

Prologue: New Maps of Hell
Chapter 1: Raising Hell
Chapter 2: Three Princesses

Prologue: New Maps of Hell

PRINCESS TRINITY
The Gates of Hell

by D. G. D. Davidson

When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest, and findeth none. Then he saith, I will return into my house from whence I came out; and when he is come, he findeth it empty, swept, and garnished. Then goeth he, and taketh with himself seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter in and dwell there: and the last state of that man is worse than the first. Even so shall it be also unto this wicked generation.

--Matthew 12:43-45

Prologue: New Maps of Hell

The land of Equestria knew not war. Princess Celestia guarded the day, Princess Luna guarded the night, harmony ruled, and the ponies lived in peace, as they had for thousands of years.

Yet in the midst of the peaceable kingdom lay a scorched, blackened valley where nopony dared go. Behind dark, craggy mountains carved with horrific gargoyles and demons by ancient, long-forgotten peoples, the valley stretched for miles, its floor of cracked hardpan occasionally broken by twisted, stunted trees. In the middle of the valley rose a mountainous pile of boulders heaped up like a giant’s altar, and atop the boulders stood the doorway to Tartarus. Built of cold iron inlaid with silver, covered in spikes and fixed on studded hinges, crossed with chains and laden with locks, the gate was shut. In the ancient past, a sorcerer had discovered and then closed up this mouth of Hell to save the land from a hoard of harpies that often poured forth from the depths to plague the world. He cast great and terrible weirds upon it: anyone who dared to bring weapons against the gate or touch its locks would fall under its curse. No fire could come near it without blowing out. No rain could strike it. Any blade or stone or wood brought to it would rust or crack or rot away. Naught could open the door save Doomsday. On its great granite lintel, this inscription was engraved:

Through me the way is to the city dolent;

Through me the way is to eternal dole;

Through me the way among the people lost.

Justice incited my sublime Creator;

Created me divine Omnipotence,

The highest Wisdom and the primal Love.

Before me there were no created things,

Only eterne, and I eternal last.

All hope abandon, ye who enter in!

Before the gate stood the dog Cerberus, his six eyes ever watchful, his three fang-filled mouths dripping drool. Day and night Cerberus paced back and forth before the closed gate of the netherworld, awaiting the day when its denizens might attempt to escape so he could feast on their flesh.

Behind that door, dark tunnels of stone wound deep into the bowels of the earth. Through them, lost souls--the only beings who could pass through the sealed gate above--wandered long years before at last stepping inevitably to the shore of Acheron, river of tears, which marked the border of Hell. Beyond the river lay a rude land of smoldering tar pits, noxious thorn forests, howling deserts beaten by falling ash, frozen wastes of cold ice, and burning pools of molten rock. The whole of Hell reeked with the stench of charred flesh, and screams echoed against the heat-reddened roof of stone. The damned cried out to Heaven, but Heaven did not hear.

Five rivers carved the hard floor of Tartarus: Acheron flowed into Styx, river of putrefaction. Styx flowed into Lethe, river of forgetfulness. Lethe flowed into Cocytus, river of lamentation. Cocytus flowed into Phlegethon, the river of boiling blood. Phlegethon emptied into a black pool of fire that gave no light, the Burning Lake.

Against the surface of that lake, his enormous, ruddy limbs bound with adamantine chains, lay Tirek the centaur. Every nerve in his body was numb with pain. All around him, other creatures, chained as he was, groaned and screamed and wept in the fire, but Tirek made no sound. Able to move nothing else, he raised his chin against high Heaven and silently blasphemed the gods. He lay this way for long, slow eons, and he might have lain this way for many eons more, but the day came when a black hoof rotten with decaying flesh reached through the flames, touched the chains across his chest, and broke his bonds in twain.

“Arise, ancient bane,” said a silky voice, “and wreak havoc on the world once more.”

He tried to stand, but his legs, so long immobilized in the raging fire, refused to move.

“Who are you?” he croaked.

A black equine face with a crooked horn and two needle-like fangs lowered out of the gloom and hovered before him. “I am Queen Chrysalis of the changelings. Take my hoof, and together we shall be queen and king of Hell.”

Unable to lift himself, Tirek wrapped his hand around the putrid flesh of the limb Chrysalis offered him. In spite of his great size, she with little effort dragged him from the fire and brought him to the shore. He lay panting against the glassy, razor-sharp stones.

“A drink,” he gasped.

She laughed. “Would you have me dip my hoof into water and cool your tongue? You forget where you are, my dear. You can find no fresh water here except that in which Tantalus stands, and neither he nor anyone else may drink it. The rivers of Hell would burn your gut as surely as this lake has burned the rest of you.”

“Then why did you pull me to this shore? I have no wish to reign in Tartarus.”

“Would you rather roast in it? You are damned, Tirek; wherever you go now is Tartarus. You have no hope of redemption, so give yourself to revenge.”

“Revenge?” He blinked, rubbing a hand against his head.

“You have tasted Lethe, I see. Here.” She touched her horn to his forehead. In a flash of green light, his memories returned and strength entered his limbs.

As his pain and weakness ebbed, he slowly stood and looked out over the dim, smoking expanse of the underworld’s torture pits. “I had forgotten my life,” he said. “I had forgotten everything. I thought I had always been in Hell.”

“So Hell’s denizens always say. They remember their hatred for the good, but goodness itself they forget entirely. In time, nothing remains to their minds except the hate, a pure hate with no object.”

“I have something specific to hate now,” Tirek hissed. “The ponies. And that blasted little girl--”

“Your enemies are dead,” said Chrysalis. “They died many ages ago, and Dream Valley has become a frigid wasteland.”

“Then I have no one on whom to avenge myself.”

Chrysalis licked her fangs and tugged at the long, greasy green forelock hanging over her face. “Not so. The race of ponies lives on, but they are diminished from what they once were. They have new mistresses now, immortal princesses who control the sun and moon. Under such powerful rulers, they have grown weak and complacent. They’ve forgotten you, Tirek, as surely as the river Lethe made you forget them. You cannot take revenge on your enemies, but you can take revenge on your enemies’ descendants.”

“Why do you want me to do this?”

“Because they destroyed me in much the same way they destroyed you. Let us together wipe these ponies from the face of the earth. We are condemned to eternal perdition, but we are not powerless: here against this very lake lie the old gods. They too hunger for vengeance, so let us free them, join with them, and burn the world.”

Again Tirek looked out over the waste. He was silent a long while, but at last he said, “Once I was a great king. I had the power to cloak the world in darkness. I turned ponies into monsters to pull my chariot. I was a god, and I am a god still. If I must be a fallen god, then I will drag all that I can down with me so that I may spit in the face of the divine justice that damns me.”

A grin spread across Chrysalis’s muzzle. Again she licked her teeth. “Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. Come, we will free those who are of like mind with us.”

Their bonds burst asunder, the old gods, though their bodies were misshapen and covered with boils, proved energetic and powerful. Working together like hornets in a swarm, they dug their claws into the hard, blood-caked stones on the floors and walls of Hell until they pulled forth precious metals and gems. Forging these materials in the molten pits, they shaped monstrous parodies of beauty and built a gleaming city on the edge of a smoking volcano. They constructed tall towers of steel and gold glistening with diamonds and rubies. Each winding spire stood as a defiant finger raised in mockery of the thrones and principalities of high Heaven. The fallen gods named their city Pandemonium, and in its midst they built a citadel of white marble, within which they set up on a high dais two great thrones of gold.

Hissing like snakes, the fallen ones slithered about the thrones, snapping at each other and leering with narrowed eyes at the pair who had freed them and presumptuously proclaimed themselves lord and lady of the netherworld.

Sitting in his throne, Tirek looked around at the writhing mass and proclaimed, “All of you once held seats among the gods in Paradise, but the day came when the One cast you out, abandoning you to suffer torment in a fiery pit thrice as deep as the dome of Heaven is high. Swear fealty to me and Queen Chrysalis, and together we will bend, twist, and desecrate all that is good, making it as we are now.”

Out of the seething mass rose Asmoday, lord of lust. His hairy body was like that of a goat standing on its hind legs. He pointed a claw at Tirek and snarled, “Why should we bow to you, centaur?”

Beside Asmoday rose Belphegor, god of gluttony. He had a grotesque, elephantine figure covered in bloated rolls of fat. “We are gods, you presumptuous mortals! It should be you bowing to us!”

Chrysalis leaned back in her throne and placed a rotting hoof under her chin. “Ah, are you the gods who could not even break the chains holding you to the Lake of Fire? It was my magic that freed you. You owe me fealty.”

Beside Belphegor rose Moloch, whose gaping mouth was stained with children’s blood. “Fealty? To you? You are powerless against us, pony wench!”

Chrysalis’s horn blazed green. Moloch fell to the floor, clutching his face and screaming.

Her ragged, insect-like wings buzzing, Chrysalis rose into the air and shouted, “I am no pony, fool! I am a changeling! I feed on love, and before I fell into this pit, I gorged on it! I have brought love to Hell, and Hell cannot hold it. You are nothing to me, for no power of this realm can be greater than my power.”

Wearing a fine yet tattered robe, Mammon, prince of parsimony, stood. “You fell nonetheless,” he said. “Your power is stolen, and in time you will exhaust it. What then prevents us from tearing you to shreds?”

“Nothing, as far as I’m concerned,” Chrysalis answered, settling back into her throne. “But in the meantime, you will do my bidding.” Her horn crackled.

“What is your bidding?” buzzed Beelzebub, lord of the flies, who sat at the foot of the dais and rubbed together his insect-like forelegs.

“I wish to turn Equestria into a new tract of Hell,” Chrysalis answered. “I wish the ponies to suffer forever as I must suffer.”

Beelzebub laughed. “Ponies? You are calling up gods to battle against ponies?”

“Do not underestimate the ponies,” said Moloch, quivering and wiping his burned face. “Though we have long lay chained in this abyss, our minds have always been free to roam the world above. I have seen these ponies: they command the storms and the lightning, they possess magic, and their princesses are like the gods themselves; the very heavens answer their commands.”

Beelzebub cackled again. “I fear no ponies.”

“It might be a pleasant diversion,” Belphegor said, “to rend and devour horseflesh. As I lay against the lake, I too beheld these creatures. Magical they may be, but ponies can offer us no real resistance, for they are small and soft.”

“And cuddly,” Asmoday added.

Mammon nodded, rubbing his chin. “They would make fine slaves. I wouldn’t mind having a set of unicorns to do my bidding, and I understand they come in an array of interesting colors.”

“I hear each one has a special talent,” buzzed Beelzebub.

“Enough!” Chrysalis roared. “They are not toys, you fools! We are not collecting ponies! We are destroying ponies! We are boiling ponies forever in vats of pitch, forcing them to gallop with their entrails hanging from gaping wounds, burying them in ice and making them gnaw one another’s skulls--”

“I’m game,” said Belphegor, belching and scratching himself. “I like skulls.”

“Wait!” cried Moloch. “These two who’ve called us up, have they not been defeated by these ponies? If the love magic of one vile changeling is enough to cast us to our knees, how will we stand against a race rife with it?”

Chrysalis smiled and licked her fangs. “I, and all my kind, are parasites: we suck the love of others and store it in our guts. I was able to carry it here because it was not my own. The love the ponies possess they must make themselves, but how can anypony love in Hell? Merely spread the borders of Tartarus and the ponies you catch will be powerless before you, to do with as your appetites suggest.”

“I’d like to keep at least one intact,” said Asmoday, “you know, to snuggle. I have trouble getting to sleep at night.”

“You offer us a world to conquer and playthings to ply with petty tortures,” Mammon said, “but what do you ask in return?”

“Nothing,” Chrysalis answered. “That is enough for me.”

Mammon rubbed his chin again. “I think you lie.”

Chrysalis chuckled. “A liar in Hell? Heaven forbid. But you’re right that I’ve withheld something from you, Mammon: they have a third princess who has just now come into her full power.”

“What is her power?” Mammon asked.

“Love.”

At the word, Asmoday hissed.

“Her power is great,” Chrysalis said, “but her love is her own; thus, she has the same weakness as every other pony. Destroy her love and you destroy her. Is not the perversion of love your specialty, Asmoday?”

Asmoday looked uncertain. “It is, but--”

“But what? Surely you, a devil of Tartarus, are not afraid of a pony princess?”

Laughter echoed from the back of the room. Everyone paused and looked to the sound. Through the crowd of fallen gods strode an enormous figure: he had three heads like a lion, an ox, and a goat, upon which he wore three golden crowns. Upon his back he wore a long cloak of crimson. In his left hand he bore an iron staff, and he dragged his cloven hooves, walking with a limp. He stepped to the throne, stood before it, and laughed again.

“Who are you?” Chrysalis asked.

“I am Astaroth,” the monster answered, “and I am here to tell you that the ponies are already in our power.”

The devils mumbled amongst themselves.

“Explain,” said Chrysalis.

“Do not presume to command me, changeling queen,” Astaroth replied. “I do not bow to your ridiculous love magic. You’ve grown overconfident because you can cow Hell’s lesser gods, but some of us do not fear you.”

“Explain,” Chrysalis repeated.

Astaroth laughed again. “More than a millennium past, a sorceress called me up in a magic circle and demanded from me awful gifts. She requested forbidden knowledge, endless wealth, fleshly comforts of every sort, and power. I gave all, but with each desire I granted, I wound more and more of her soul around my finger. She sold herself to me, signing her name in blood. Our contract stands, and I am within my rights to drag her into this very pit.”

“Who is this sorceress?” Chrysalis asked.

“Princess Luna,” Astaroth replied, “who at that time called herself Nightmare Moon. If you wish to destroy these pony princesses, begin with her.”

“Why have you not claimed her?” gasped Asmoday.

“She studied the blackest magic and learned many wards,” Astaroth answered. “She has carved my name and the names of all the lords of Hell into the flesh of her inner left thigh. As long as those names remain, none of us may touch her.”

“Then your information is unprofitable,” said Mammon.

“Not so,” Astaroth replied. “Destroy her wards and she is mine. We fallen gods may not touch her physically, but this Queen Chrysalis commands changelings, does she not?”

Chrysalis grinned. “I think we can arrange for Luna to lose a leg. So, if the devil of lust destroys Princess Cadence and if I can arrange the destruction of Luna, that leaves only Celestia, whom I have defeated once before.”

“Then it is settled,” buzzed Beelzebub. “Hell shall make war on ponydom.”

“The way is shut,” said Moloch, still rubbing his face, “and Cerberus guards the gate. How are we to leave Tartarus to battle these ponies of yours?”

Tirek, his hands steepled before his face, chuckled. Everyone in the room fell silent and watched him. “For that,” he said, “I believe I hold the way.”

Chapter 1: Raising Hell

Chapter 1: Raising Hell

On the outskirts of Hoofington stood a large building of rusty corrugated steel, formerly an airship hangar. Flimsy walls divided its interior into several rooms full of tables, boxes, and machinery. Racks held tools of every conceivable shape and size, and bins held wires, screws, bolts, brackets, and all sorts of hardware. Half-finished machines covered several workbenches, and cuttings and crumpled paper littered the floor. This was the workshop of Inkie Pie, who regularly burned the midnight oil as she designed her inventions. It was nearly midnight now, and the interior of her shop swam with shifting light from the fireflies in the lamps hanging from the ceiling.

Inkie had a gray coat, a gray mane, and a PhD. Muttering to herself, peering through the elaborate system of lenses she wore on her muzzle, she leaned over a drafting table with a pencil between her teeth and carefully added the final notes to a technical drawing.

With a sigh of relief, Inkie spat out the pencil and sat back in her chair.

“Honestly, these darn hooves,” she muttered.

She hopped from her seat and went to the bench where the framework for her latest invention lay half-constructed. Frowning, she peered at a gasket peeking out between two metal joints and decided it was out of alignment, so she slipped her right front hoof into a cup attached to a wrench and clamped the cup tight with her teeth.

She tried to turn a nut to loosen the joint, but the cup on the wrench slipped and scraped painfully against her pastern.

“Ow! Ow! Blast it! Celestia curse these hooves!” She yanked a release catch, dropped the wrench to the floor, and rubbed her sore foot. “Every technological advancement we ponies have ever made has been in defiance of these useless appendages. Tungsten Steve, where are you? Tartarus take you, get over here!”

On the other side of the room, an enormous minotaur, his upper body loaded with muscle, looked up from a desk where he was filling out inventory forms. He smiled and tugged on the gold ring in his nose. “Ya need somethin’, Miss Inkie?”

“Yes I need something, or I wouldn’t have called you, you oaf. And I prefer to be called Inkamena, if you please. Doctor Pie would be even better. Now get over here and turn this wrench for me.”

Tungsten Steve heaved his big body off the little stool on which he’d been perched. He lifted his bulky arms, interlaced his fingers behind his head, and flexed his biceps. “When a pony can’t do it with her cannons, she calls in the guns.”

“Stop showing off.”

Kicking aside pieces of old electrical insulation, Tungsten Steve walked across the room, picked up the wrench, and quickly turned the nut Inkie had been trying to work. “How’s that, Miss Inkie?”

“Fine, thank you, and don’t call me Inkie. Honestly, what I wouldn’t give for a pair of hands.”

“You finish up this new machine an’ you’ll have some real nice ones.”

“Yes. Then maybe I can fire you.”

Tungsten Steve laughed.

Inkie looked down at the framework on the desk and sighed. The concept was simple, but designing and constructing a practical model was difficult. The machine consisted of a brace to be worn on the back, coupled to which was a pair of spring-loaded supports that ran down the wearer’s hind legs. The structure could, theoretically, hold a pony in a bipedal position and help her maintain her balance. Not yet attached to the machine were the more complicated parts still in the planning stages, gadgets fitting over the front hooves and imitating hands. The suspension system and pylons had been easy enough to design, and the functional fingers had proven only slightly more difficult; the real problem was developing a control system. However, if Inkie was successful, ponies wearing her machines could stand like bipeds and manipulate objects the same way minotaurs and satyrs could.

“This,” she said, petting the unfinished device, “will change ponydom forever. We have the minds to do amazing things, but we lack the tools. I will provide the tools, and then nothing will be impossible for us. Science will make up for what nature lacks. Soon, ponies will stop walking on all fours; they will stand up like minotaurs and, with their newfound hands, move the world.”

Tungsten Steve scratched his head. “Wouldn’t standin’ like that all the time be kinda hard on your back? I mean, you ain’t got no lumbar curve.”

“We’ll make do,” Inkie answered. “The domination of nature by science is worth a little back pain. Speaking of which, I’ve been bending over that blasted drafting table all night and my back is killing me.”

Tungsten Steve cracked his knuckles and obligingly rubbed her shoulders.

She sighed. “Yes, that’s it. Higher. No, higher. The knot is in my trapezius.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“You really are useless, Tungsten Steve.”

He smiled and patted her withers. “So you keep telling me.”

A loud bang came from the shop’s small front door.

“Who in the world is visiting at this hour?” said Inkie. “Is there no time of day when I can work in peace?”

She trotted to the door, threw it open, and started in surprise when she saw the grim, craggy-faced white unicorn stallion standing on the other side.

“Oh, Colonel Ironsides. What brings you here so late?”

Ironsides cleared his throat. “Madam Mayor, I--”

“Please don’t call me madam. It makes me sound like an old nag.”

“Fine, Miss Mayor. I wish you spent half as much time running the town as you spend tinkering with your gadgets or worrying about what ponies call you.”

Inkie snorted. “I am an ideal elected official. I keep out of ponies’ way and let them go about their business. But, honestly, I never much wanted the job: my cutie mark is a quill and inkwell, and somepony decided that must mean I’m an expert at signing legislature.” She gestured to the long lab coat covering her haunches. “I wish I had already then decided to keep my hips covered. I’ve come to the realization that it’s vulgar for ponies to have their cutie marks on display; it makes public what ought to be private. What do you think?”

Ironsides turned his head and looked at his own cutie mark, which was a pair of crossed swords. “I think you’ll have a hard time finding popular support for that idea.”

“Such is the fate of all good ideas. Speaking of which, I suspect my latest good idea is meeting a terrible fate right now.” Inkie walked to a wall and picked up a pair of cans attached to strings. She placed one can against an ear and held the other to her muzzle. “Bossy? Are you there?” she shouted. She listened for a few seconds and then shouted again, “No, no! I told you, the stress on this system would be too much for that. I need you to use the machined phosphor bronze terminals, not the stamped and formed gold plate. No, they don’t require a plug. The strip length is 3.27 centimeters, and I’ve told you that a dozen times, so why can’t you remember, you cow?”

Inkie dropped the cans in disgust. “Honestly, good help is so hard to find. My second assistant is apparently now in the process of destroying the electrical harness I spent the entire day yesterday designing.”

“That’s no reason to call her names,” Ironsides said coolly.

Inkie cocked her head and stared at him. “What are you talking about? Bossy is a cow.”

A door at the far end of the room creaked open. A spotted cow bounced in wearing a heavy welder’s apron and carrying a plate of cookies and a glass of milk balanced on her back.

“I think somepony’s been workin’ too ‘ard, don’cha know?” the cow said.

Uncharacteristic color entered Inkie’s cheeks as the cow set down the milk and cookies on a nearby bench and patted Inkie’s head.

“Ooh, my little Inkie ‘ere always gets cranky when she don’ get ‘er sleep, don’cha know? ‘Getcher sleep now, Inkie,’ I’m a-tellin’ her, but no, she likes to stay up late an’ make ‘er little machines.”

Inkie grit her teeth. “Bossy--”

“Now eatcher cookies an’ drink your milk an’ you’ll feel all better. You need milk to grow up big an’ strong like yer older sister, don’cha know?”

Inkie exploded. “My sister? My sister has never done anything worthwhile in her life! And I am not a child, Bossy!”

“Moo, course not,” Bossy said, patting Inkie’s head again.

“I am going to be somepony,” Inkie muttered, taking the glass of milk in her front hooves and glugging it. When she came up for air, she muttered again, “I am going to be one of the greatest scientists Equestria has ever known. Like Louis Pastern.” She gazed longingly at the wall above Tungsten Steve’s desk where a large painting of the famous scientist hung.

Bossy dabbed off Inkie’s milk moustache. “Course you are, dear, but I’m sure ol’ Mister Pastern knew when it was his bedtime.”

Tungsten Steve covered his muzzle, but made an audible giggle.

Ironsides cleared his throat.

“Oh, yes,” Inkie said, setting down her empty glass. “What is it you wanted, Colonel?”

“We have a possible situation,” Ironsides answered. “If you’d care to look out your window to the east, I think you’ll see what I mean.”

To find an east-facing window, Inkie had to shove aside several crates full of screws, rivets, and old electrical weaving. She pulled up the Venetian blinds, threw the window open, and stuck her head out.

An unexpectedly warm night breeze struck her face and tousled her slate-colored mane. The ominous mountains in the distance and the sky above them glowed red.

“Dawn shouldn’t be for several hours,” Inkie said. “Is Princess Celestia pulling another one of her pranks?”

Ironsides coughed. “Madam Mayor, you know why the last regiment of the old Equestrian Order is stationed here in Hoofington. You know why this town has the only military outpost in the entire country.”

“Because we’re the closest to the gate to Tartarus, of course.”

“That light is coming from the direction of the gate. I sent out scouts thirty minutes ago, but they haven’t returned.”

Inkie looked over her shoulder at Ironsides and considered for a moment. “Tungsten Steve,” she called, “get the telescope. The special telescope. Bring it to the watchtower.”

“All of it?” Tungsten Steve asked.

“Of course!”

A few minutes later, Inkie, Tungsten Steve, and Colonel Ironsides stood in the watchtower on the eastern edge of Hoofington’s decrepit military base while Bossy waited at the foot of the tower with some of the soldiers. Tungsten Steve adjusted the controls on a complicated telescope as Inkie tried to operate the finicky cathode ray tube attached to it.

The screen showed lines of static, so Inkie tapped it repeatedly. “Honestly, this is supposed to be the latest technology, but I can never get a clear picture on the thing without hitting it.” After several taps, a reddish glow appeared. “Tungsten Steve, it’s blurry. Adjust the lens.”

Keeping the telescope pointed toward the eastern horizon, Tungsten Steve turned various dials. At last, the picture came into focus.

Inkie swallowed and said, “I think this explains why your scouts haven’t reported back, Colonel.”

“It does indeed,” Ironsides answered.

On the screen, three pegasus ponies hung on crosses in the midst of a swirl of falling ash. They writhed, tossing their heads in agony. Their crosses were mounted on the backs of great, slavering beasts with reptilian scales and mouths full of long fangs. Around the beasts marched enormous monsters of every shape, their flesh covered in boils, their misshapen limbs ending in long claws, and their faces--evident even on the fuzzy monitor--full of malevolence.

“They’re headed this way,” said Tungsten Steve.

Ironsides ran to the tower’s railing and shouted down to his troops. “Sound the alarms! Warn the town, and get the mares and foals out first! The day we’ve awaited has arrived: Tartarus is open, and the monsters of Hell are upon us!”

Inkie said to Tungsten Steve, “I need you and Bossy to get out all the special equipment. Call up everypony we've trained to use it. And I’ll need the Mark VII.”

Tungsten Steve scratched his head. “We ain’t finished testing it.”

“We never will.”

“But it only works with the Pegasaucer, and that thing still explodes on impact.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I need it.”

The glow in the east grew steadily brighter, and ash began to fall from the sky. A Klaxon sounded and lights came on in the houses of Hoofington. The soldiers donned their battle tack. Unicorns skilled in destructive magic used levitation spells to lift boulders into trebuchets. Pegasi hastily assembled a bank of black storm clouds and positioned themselves to buck lightning.

Inkie gave her secretary terse instructions for an organized evacuation. Then, while the soldiers got ready, she gathered the earth ponies she had trained as engineers. They opened the broad door of her hangar, slipped into harnesses, and hauled out her more controversial inventions--projectile weapons capable of firing pellets, balls, or shells at high velocities by means of compressed air or explosive powder. Before the base’s eastern wall, Inkie set up a battery of cannons and mortars. Her engineers quickly hauled in sandbags to create nests for the guns.

As Inkie and Bossy oversaw the loading of the weapons, Ironsides ran to them. “I want all your civilian personnel to evacuate with the townies, and I want you to go with them.”

“You need us here,” Inkie answered. “Your soldiers can’t operate the artillery. Thanks to technology, earth ponies can now fight as well as pegasi or unicorns, and we’re going to prove that tonight.”

“This is not the occasion for you to get on your soapbox, Inkamena! I want the civilians out of here!”

“I’ve already given the evacuation orders to everypony who isn’t on my crew. Sorry, Colonel, but tonight, I am going into battle personally.”

With a loud whistle, a fireball sailed overhead from the east. It passed over the military base and landed in Hoofington with a boom. The thatched roofs of several houses quickly caught fire, illuminating everything with flickering orange light. More fireballs soon followed, and one landed in the base itself.

Inkie pointed a hoof at six earth ponies unloading sandbags from a cart. “You there! Get the firefighting equipment! You’re on fire detail tonight!” She shouted to the artillery ponies, “Establish a firing distance and reply! Do it!”

Over the past few years, Inkie’s engineers had carefully mapped the hilly, parched land between the mountains and Hoofington, determined firing angles to hit its various parts, and figured out how to adjust for temperature, humidity, and wind. Estimating the distance of the advancing demon horde, they set their weapons and fired a volley. The earth shuddered from the deafening boom as the guns went off, launching shells into the air.

Tungsten Steve, who still watched the telescope in the tower, radioed down, “Too short! The shots fell short!”

“Too short!” Inkie called. “Adjust, load, and fire again!”

“No!” Ironsides yelled. “Those are my stallions those monsters have out there! You fire these things of yours, you’ll hit them!”

“Your three scouts are already lost,” Inkie answered. “They were very brave, but--”

Ironsides used a levitation spell to grab Inkie by the front of her lab coat and haul her into the air.

“Ugh!” she cried. “Typical unicorn thug! Get your filthy magic off me, you dastard!”

“Listen,” Ironsides said through grit teeth, “Equestria hasn’t had a war in millennia. We’re all out of practice, and we’re all going to make mistakes, but there’s one thing I know: the Equestrian Order doesn’t leave anypony behind. We’re going to rescue my troops, and then, for all I care, you can blast the whole world to Hell.”

“It’s a trap, Colonel. How many more stallions are you willing to send to the devils?”

“I know it’s a trap! That’s why I’m going myself, darn it!” He dropped her.

She dusted off her coat. “Fool. The soldiers need you here.”

He turned from her, breathing hard. “I won’t abandon them, I won’t fire weapons at them . . . and I won’t send anypony else to save them. I don’t have a choice. I’ve told the troops that, if I’m captured, they’re to fire at will.”

“Every moment we delay is a moment the forces of Tartarus draw closer.”

“I know.”

She snorted. “Stallions! Ridiculous fools, all of them. Why can’t you males ever grow up? What filly are you trying to impress with your misplaced gallantry, Colonel Ironsides?”

He turned back around and grinned at her. “I can’t help myself, Doctor Pie. I’m a crusty old soldier, and I will be until the day I die.”

Inkie chewed her lip. “Your rugged, individualistic machismo won’t help you here, I think. Let me give you another option: if you are unwilling to leave your captured scouts where they are, then take the battle to the devils before they reach the walls. You’ve no hope of saving your stallions if you go alone, but with your regiment behind you, you might. Make an assault; in the confusion, rescue the scouts. Then retreat to the base and let my engineers hit them with all we’ve got. That way, we’ll soften them up before they can begin a proper siege of the base. We might stand a chance.”

“I like the way you think.”

Inkie jumped onto a pile of sandbags. “Bossy!” she shouted. “You’re in charge until I return! Order the boys to prepare a rolling barrage. We’re making a charge!”

“Oh ya, don’cha know?” Bossy shouted back.

“What do you mean ‘we’?” Ironsides demanded.

“Trust me, you’ll want me along,” Inkie answered. “Come back to my workshop; I have something that might give us a leg up.”

Inkie and Ironsides ran through the open hangar bay doors. Inkie gestured to a hulk of steel shaped vaguely like a gigantic pony. It had thick, piston-driven limbs with enormous gimbals for joints. Its hooves were pointed with spikes, and mounted on its back was an array of rocket launchers and rotating-barrel machine guns. The elongated head had no facial features, but did have a narrow slit window.

“The Mark VII Trojan Warhorse,” Inkie said. “It takes two ponies to operate, a driver and a gunner. I can drive it. I’d have Tungsten Steve serve as gunner, but he won’t fit in the seat.”

Ironsides stared at the machine with a greedy expression on his face. “Good Celestia, Inkie, it’s beautiful. I’ll be your gunner.”

“Are you sure? Shouldn’t you--?”

“I’m absolutely sure.”

“Very well, I’ll fit you out with the Pegasaucer Armor. It plugs directly into the Warhorse’s systems, and you’ll have to wear it to operate the controls. I warn you, it still has a few bugs.”

“What sort of bugs?”

“It requires a highly inflammable fuel source--rarified liquid rainbow, to be exact. Admittedly, that defeats its purpose as armor.”

“I see.” Ironsides smiled crookedly. “You know, Inkie, since there’s a good chance we won’t survive this, I just want to say I’ve always respected you.”

Inkie felt a lump form in her throat, and her knees shook. She glared at Ironsides and sniffed. “Honestly, Colonel, I hope you don’t think a mare of my mental caliber is easily moved by displays of sentimentality.”

“Um--”

“And, really, I find such a confession grossly inappropriate at a time like this when you’ve undoubtedly calculated that I would be emotionally vulnerable.”

“Inkie--”

“I am a scientist, a creature of the mind. I consider all appetites and passions to be nuisances at best, and I would certainly never submit myself to anything so humiliating as a state of matrimony.”

“Inkie--”

“Besides that, you’re old enough to be my sire.”

The colonel’s grin grew wider. “Inkie, when I said I respected you, I just meant I respected you.”

Inkie felt heat spread into her face.

Ironsides patted her shoulder. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Muttering to herself, Inkie went to a wall and pulled down two complicated sets of tack consisting of gray metal plates connected by several straps. She tugged off her lab coat with her teeth and threw one set of tack over her back. After she closed its many snaps, she helped Ironsides into the other set.

“Press the button on your chest,” she said. She took off her elaborate glasses. Then she reached a hoof to her breast and pressed a badge shaped like a rising phoenix. With a whir, the plates on her back opened like a puzzle box, revealing more plates. Like metal accordions, they unfolded, extending down her sides and enclosing her limbs. A helmet with a thick, tinted visor appeared over her face, leaving only her muzzle exposed.

Ironsides pressed his own badge and sucked in his breath as his armor activated.

“Try not to squirm,” Inkie said, “or it won’t fit right.”

“It certainly feels odd,” he answered.

When they were finished donning their armor, Inkie tapped the side of her helmet. “Tungsten Steve? Can you hear me?”

Her helmet crackled. “Loud and clear, Miss Inkie.”

“Good. I’m wearing the Pegasaucer. Colonel Ironsides and I are taking the Mark VII out now. Fit out as many troops as possible with the back-mounted machine guns and recoilless rifles, and show them how to use the trigger-bits. The colonel will give orders, so make sure you relay them immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Inkie nodded to Ironsides. “The radio in your helmet should be working.”

“Tungsten Steve, you there?” Ironsides asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Congratulations. You’ve been drafted, and you’re now a major. You report directly to my second, Lieutenant Colonel Stonewall.”

“Sir, I refer you to the Non-Pony Protection Act, which affords me special rights including exemption from any military duty.”

“This is an emergency, I’m declaring martial law, and I have power to temporarily suspend the Non-Pony Protection Act. Don’t play lawyer with me, Major, or I’ll court-martial your rump.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want the Second Battalion ready to go. That’s three companies of pegasi armed with storm clouds and three companies of armored unicorns. All of them need to prepare to mobilize immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ironsides nodded to Inkie. “Let’s get this Warhorse of yours up and running.”

Inkie pushed a wheeled ladder to the Warhorse, and she and Ironsides climbed to the hatch in the top. She directed him to the gunner’s seat and then dropped into the pilot’s chair where she cinched several restraining straps around herself. She grabbed a plug and inserted it into a jack hidden under a seam on the heartgirth of her armor suit.

“Strap in and jack in, Colonel. You’ll find a plug on the console right in front of you. It will activate a head’s-up display in your visor.”

“I’ve got it, Inkie . . . oh. That certainly looks strange.”

“Your visor contains miniaturized cathode ray tubes of my own invention, and they are now connected to a dual periscope up top. The display uses two cameras to estimate distance and automatically calculate angles for hitting targets. It can’t account for crosswind, though. I’m still working on that.”

“I’ll make do.”

“Unfortunately, the visor might also give you a bad headache after a few minutes.”

“Lovely.”

“You have two launchers and two machine guns, one stick for each. Red buttons fire the guns, blue launch the rockets. Ten rockets in each launcher. Reloading is automatic, and the buttons glow when they’re ready to fire.”

“Got it.”

“Let’s go.” Watching her own head’s-up display, Inkie placed her front hooves in two cups attached to a steering column. She bent her fetlocks to increase the throttle; the Warhorse shuddered, but then, with a loud grinding noise, it lifted its metal hooves and walked forward. Every time it set a foot down, Inkie’s teeth rattled in her head.

“It’s rather--nngh!--jarring,” Ironsides said behind her. “I think this is what will give me a headache.”

“Still--oof!--working the bugs out of it!” Inkie answered. “In all honesty, we--hrrgh!--nicknamed it the ‘migraine machine.’”

“Inkie, if we survive this, I’m going to kill you.”

“Ha! If you think this is bad, just wait until I put it in full gallop.”

With a rolling curtain of artillery fire advancing before them, armored unicorns ran across the broken desert. Overhead, flying pegasi pushed black columns of cloud. The Mark VII Trojan Warhorse led the charge, and the ponies met the armies of Hell head-on. Unicorns wearing Inkie’s machine guns and launchers chomped their trigger-bits and opened fire. Others blasted away with destructive spells or used levitation to pick up monsters and hurl them. The pegasi sent bolts of lightning into the demon horde, and the artillery ponies back at the base created a new curtain of fire on the devils’ rear ranks, sending them into confusion. Over all hung a thick haze of black smoke.

Now in combat and armed with the latest in experimental military technology, Colonel Ironsides lost any semblance of composure. He cut down slavering beasts with the Warhorse’s machine guns, shouting, “Go back to Hell, you dam-covering sons of witches!”

“Honestly, do I have to listen to this uncouth language?” Inkie muttered. Bouncing back and forth in her restraining harness, she steered the Warhorse through the ranks of demons, using the heavy hooves to crush the monsters and grind them into the earth. In her visor, in the midst of the melee, she saw, outlined against red flames, the three crosses rising from the backs of the four-footed beasts that carried them. The crucified ponies still struggled against their bonds.

“There!” Ironsides shouted. “Open a path and we’ll have pegasi pick them up!”

The monsters carrying the crosses had thick, armor-like scales; their bodies were covered with bony spikes, and their tails ended in large clubs. They swung their tails at any ponies who came too close, but they often struck the imps and devils as well. Their long mouths were full of crooked fangs, and their eyes dripped yellow pus. The crosses were not mounted on any sort of harness or brace, but were merely drilled into gaping holes in the monsters’ flesh, from which dark blood oozed.

Ironsides ceased firing when the Warhorse drew near. One of the beasts swung its huge tail and struck the Warhorse’s front right leg. With a shriek of metal, the machine buckled.

“Too close!” Ironsides shouted. “Back us up!”

“I can’t back up!”

“What?”

“The machine cannot back up!”

“What?”

“I was hoping to add that feature to the Mark VIII, but for now--”

One of the monsters launched itself at the Warhorse, biting the machine’s head. Inkie watched the metal walls of her compartment buckle.

“Impossible!” she shouted. “It can’t be that strong!”

The monster twisted, and the Warhorse rocked on its feet. With a groan, the machine fell sideways into the earth, slamming Inkie and Ironsides hard against their seats. The monster then set about trying to tear off one of the Warhorse’s legs.

“How do we stand back up?” Ironsides asked.

“We don’t.”

“Let me guess, you were also saving that for the Mark VIII.”

“No, that’s a problem I may never surmount.” Inkie unplugged her Pegasaucer from the console and undid her restraining harness. She could hear Ironsides doing the same thing.

“Any portable weapons in here?” he asked.

“No.”

“What about this fancy and explosive armor suit?”

“No offensive systems on it, no.”

“All right, then. I’ve got my horn. Stick close to me.”

He threw open the hatch. Together, they clambered out, and the din of battle engulfed them: monsters roared, flames crackled, thunder boomed, and ponies screamed.

They ran from the massive monster tearing at their machine; fortunately, it was busy feasting and didn’t notice them. Three demons covered in spikes and scales approached, throwing fire from their hands. With a rapid series of red blasts from his horn, Ironsides sent them sprawling to the earth.

“Darn it,” he said. “We can talk to the base, but we’ve lost our line of communication out here. That’s my fault. We’ll need a rallying point if we’re going to contact the pegasi overhead.”

“We’ll fly up,” Inkie replied.

“What?”

“Why do you think I called it the Pegasaucer? Why do you think it’s full of dangerous fuel? Open the little door on your front right leg and hit the red button.”

Ironsides did. A pair of metal wings and a miniature rocket sprouted from the back of his armor. A compartment in the plate over his chest opened, and out of it extended a device vaguely resembling an airship’s steering column.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said.

Inkie unfolded her own mechanical wings. “I recommend keeping your tail tucked down so the rocket doesn’t catch it on fire. And we’re off!” She pressed a button on her controls and her rocket lit. With a loud boom, she was airborne. She glanced back to see that Ironsides was right behind her.

As they cleared the haze of black smoke hovering over the battle on the ground, they discovered another battle in the air. Winged demons and jewel-scaled, fire-breathing wyverns beset the pegasi, who fought back as well as they could with lightning and spears.

Inkie found herself face-to-face with a scaled monster with membranous wings and long, gangly limbs ending in twisted talons. It reached out to grab her, but a blast of light struck it in the neck and sent it screaming toward the ground.

“Got ‘im!” Ironsides shouted as he flew up beside her. “This flying suit of yours is the dickens to control, but it’s amazing anyway!”

Five pegasi fell into formation alongside them. Ironsides shouted, “You there! Make a dive for our captured scouts! Grab them, and we’ll make an organized retreat. I’ll cover you from the air!”

The pegasi glanced at one another, bared their teeth, and attacked the colonel.

“Ironsides!” Inkie shouted. She dove for one of the attacking pegasi and landed on his back. He twisted around and struck her in the muzzle with a hoof, sending her spinning out of control.

As she fell, she saw on the battlefield below that the tides had turned: half the pony troops were assaulting the other half; the demons had reorganized and were now routing the ponies. Their ranks broken, the unicorns turned to flee, but their treacherous fellow soldiers mowed them down with bursts of gunfire.

Inkie placed her front hooves firmly against her controls, held her breath, and forced herself to be calm. She knew how to do this. Roll, yaw, pitch--she could distinguish each one. She turned against the yaw and, only a few feet from the deck, pulled out of the tailspin.

She cranked up the power and rocketed back into the clouds. The rogue pegasi had torn off one of the colonel’s metal wings. Four of them held his limbs while the other bit his chest, trying to rip the armor off.

“Ironsides!” Inkie shouted again.

“Get out!” Ironsides roared back. “We’ve lost! Get out of here! Head for Canterlot!” He managed to free a front leg and kick one of the pegasi in the face.

“I’m going to save you!” Inkie cried.

“You can’t! You need to go, Inkie! Equestria will need ponies like you if we’re to win this.” He freed his other front leg and grabbed one of the pegasi around the neck. “But I won’t be a war prisoner of Tartarus. You say this thing explodes on impact?”

“Colonel!”

With a heave, Ironsides freed his back legs and wrapped his rear cannons around the neck of another pegasus. “Come on,” he shouted. “If you want to fight for Hell, let’s all go to Hell together!”

He hit the control for the booster and sent himself, along with the rogue ponies he’d grabbed, plummeting downward. Shouting and crying, Inkie followed after. She watched as Ironsides crashed into the midst of a knot of demons. His armor erupted into a fireball, spraying the devils with flaming fuel.

Weeping, Inkie pulled up and banked hard as a black cloud of hot smoke reached from the blast to engulf her. She kicked up her speed and flew toward Hoofington, but the sounds of battle did not lessen as she drew near the town. She passed over the military base and saw, to her horror, that ponies armed with her weapons had turned them on their fellow soldiers, slaughtering them with machine gun fire. Her engineers, too, no longer operated the artillery, but instead fought tooth-and-hoof with one another. She watched as a pegasus leapt upon an earth pony and stabbed him over and over with a spear. In the midst of it all, she saw Tungsten Steve with Bossy tucked under one arm. He still stood in the watchtower, and rogue ponies climbed up to drag him down. Bossy bellowed in terror as Tungsten Steve slugged anypony who drew near him.

Tungsten Steve looked up as Inkie passed overhead. A grin spread across his face. With a roar, he doubled the pace of his swings and hurled five unicorns to the earth.

Inkie flew west, cursing herself. She had no weapons left. She couldn’t even save her assistants. She could do nothing but flee.

Her fuel gauge dropped rapidly as she passed over forests, meadows, and farmlands. The stars faded, the sky turned pink, and the Canterlot Cliffs, hazy and purple in the early morning light, appeared in the distance. A warmth struck Inkie’s back, and she turned her head in fear, thinking the demon hordes were upon her, but it was only the rising sun. The battle was visible now only as a distant column of smoke.

Tears ran from her eyes, leaked from under her visor, and whipped away in the wind. For years, Bossy and Tungsten Steve had been there by her side, but now she had abandoned them. In college, she had been an outcast, always holding forth on her opinion that magic was unnecessary and that ponies could accomplish so much more if they rejected it in favor of science and invention. The non-pony students, being misfits themselves, had gravitated to her: Bossy and Tungsten Steve had become her closest friends, faithfully helping her in all her endeavors even if they never quite shared her point of view. When she moved to Hoofington and foolishly made a bid for mayor, thinking she could apply her scientific principles in the political sphere, they had been there to support her. Ironsides had supported her as well, treating her with rough gallantry that was somehow both irritating and comforting. Now she had let them all down.

She flew into the rugged mountains where Canterlot perched. Cold wind whistling from the high peaks struck her face and turned the tears on her muzzle to frost. The city sprawled before her; gleaming white towers stretched over every available patch of ground on the narrow, twisting ledges, and the Canterlot Falls sparkled as they tumbled through the city and poured into the valley below. Gold and copper roofs shone blindingly in the sunlight as if they were ablaze.

Inkie’s fuel gauge hit zero just as she reached a dirigible dock where she skidded to a stop on a pier between two aerial yachts. While several dapper unicorns in day attire watched with their mouths hanging open, she stripped off her armor and galloped up a shop-laden street toward the white spires of the palace.

She was already weak, and Canterlot was full of steep ramps and stairs. Inkie forced herself to run until sweat matted her coat and foam-flecked saliva ran from her mouth. She staggered through a pond-spotted garden to the low, crenelated wall of the castle’s gatehouse. At last, she dragged herself up a curved staircase to the wall’s top and collapsed before the sturdy double doors. Two stern-faced pegasi flanking the doors glared down at her.

“What is your business?” one of them asked.

Inkie raised her head, swallowed, and struggled to speak. “I must see Princess Celestia!”

“Nopony sees the princess without an appointment,” the guard answered.

Shaking, Inkie rose and ran to the doors. “Let me in!” she cried.

The guard stepped forward and pushed her back. She again fell to the ground. “Let me in!” she shouted. “Let me in! It’s important!” She tried to kick the guard, but he held her down.

“Nopony without an appointment,” he said.

“Let me go! Get off me!” she screamed.

“What is the meaning of this?" said a kindly voice. "Release that mare."

The guard stepped back, and Inkie staggered to her hooves to see one of the doors ajar. Standing in the doorway was an elderly unicorn with a gray mane and a light green coat. He wore a monocle over one eye.

Inkie sighed in relief. “Chief Gelding Parsnip,” she said. “Thank goodness it’s you.”

“I prefer the title ‘majordomo,’” Parsnip replied. “And it’s good to see you again, Mayor Pie, though you’re looking rather ruffled. What brings you to Canterlot?”

Inkie’s head swam, and she realized she was losing consciousness. She said, “Tartarus is open, Hoofington is lost, traitors are in our midst, and the Equestrian Order is destroyed.”

With that, Inkie Pie slumped sideways and blacked out.

Chapter 2: Three Princesses

Chapter 2: Three Princesses

Tungsten Steve’s mind swam. He imagined he was back at the technical college and again faced the examination board. He stood in the center of a large lecture hall while unicorns with clipboards glared at him over their pince-nez and jotted notes.

“Why do you want to study here, monster?”

“My name is Tungsten Steve.” He felt his palms sweat.

“Answer the question, monster.”

“I’m not a monster. I’m a--”

“Answer the question.”

His gut burned, but he swallowed his rage. “To learn. To learn to make machines. Why else--?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why does a monster wish to learn of technology?”

He felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t show anger. If he showed anger, he’d only confirm their opinions of him and those like him. Then they’d never let him in. “To make life better.”

“For monsters?”

“For everypony.”

“You’re not a pony.”

“Then for everyone. All rational beings.”

“Do you know the history of the minotaurs? Do you know where you come from?”

Now he clenched his fists, but he kept his arms down at his sides. His nose twitched, but he resisted the urge to snort. “Yes. I do.”

“Are you ashamed of it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He grit his teeth, swallowed, and said, “It happened a long time ago. I didn’t do it.”

One of the unicorns stood up and adjusted his glasses. “You’ve passed your entrance exams, your recommendations are in order, and your proposals are intriguing. You’re one of the top candidates. We cannot justify denying you entrance to the school. However, we are letting you in against our better judgment. You will be watched. Welcome to the Manehattan Institute of Magical Technology.”

“Thanks.” Tungsten Steve marched from the auditorium and headed across campus to the gym where he could blow off steam.

On his way there, he walked through a rose garden in the college quad. It was late summer, and many of the flowers were still in bloom, filling the air with a heady odor. Bees and butterflies hovered over the blossoms. An elderly stallion with a stalk of hay in his teeth trimmed branches and whistled. A warm breeze rustled the leaves.

Tungsten Steve noticed a young mare lounging on a bench between two bushes full of wild, pink buds. Her dull gray coat and mane looked flat even in the bright sunlight, having none of the gloss typical of pony hair. She held a pencil in her teeth and sketched something on a portable drawing board. When Tungsten Steve drew nearer, he noticed her cutie mark: it depicted an inkwell, above which hovered a quill, its point creating a black zigzag across her hip. Whatever she was drawing, then, had something to do with her special talent, that curious curse that governed the life of every pony and determined her destiny.

On impulse, he walked to her and looked over her shoulder. His shadow fell across her drawing board.

She dropped her pencil, but didn’t turn her head to look at him. “That’s rude, you know,” she said.

“Let me guess, your special talent is writin’ novels? Or drawin’ flowers, maybe? That might explain why you’re makin’ pictures in a flower garden.”

She snorted. “Special talent? Stuff and bosh. My cutie mark does not dictate what I can or can’t do. I am a mare of many talents.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” She clasped her board in a fetlock, turned, and held it up to him. On it was a detailed sketch of what appeared to be a basket hanging under a pair of bat-like wings built over wooden frames.

“Is that a--?”

“An ornithopter, yes. It is an injustice of nature that pegasi can fly while earth ponies cannot. I intend to correct nature’s mistake.”

“If you wanna fly somewhere, can’t you just take a balloon?”

She lowered the board and glared. “Perhaps your ox’s brain is incapable of grasping certain simple concepts.”

For some reason, her remark didn’t anger him. He chuckled. “Perhaps it is. Well, that’s a beautiful design. If you build it and get some unicorn to enchant it for you, I’m sure--”

“It will not require enchantment.”

“What? But--”

“Have you heard of electrical engineering? The field is still in its infancy, but I suggest you take a look at it. The electrical department could use somepony like you, what with the valuable tools you carry.”

“You mean my ox’s brain?”

“I mean your hands.”

He raised his arms and examined his fingers. He flexed them carefully and realized he had taken them for granted before. He wondered what it would be like to go through life with only hooves. He looked over his hands at this mare lounging on the bench, at the determined look in her eyes, the firm set of her mouth. She was brusque and cheerless, but he decided right then that he liked her.

He held out a hand. “I’m Tungsten Steve, a freshpony.”

She touched a hoof to his palm. “I’m a junior. My name is Inkamena.”

He couldn’t help grinning again. “Of course it is.”

The memories of school faded. Tungsten Steve slowly regained consciousness and became aware of aches stretching across his body. His back felt scraped and raw. His legs were cramped. Fiery pangs shot through his shoulders and wrists.

He opened his eyes to find himself stretched out on a rack tilted at a forty-five degree angle. His arms were tied over his head. Above, he saw an angry red sky mottled with black clouds. Through the sky swarmed dark creatures with fluttering, membranous green wings. All around, he heard a constant droning as of millions of insects. The thick, hot air stank like burnt horsemeat.

Before him was a cliff face made of something translucent and green, like emerald. Hanging from it, her back lodged inside the green substance, was a creature like a nightmarish distortion of a pony: aside from a limp, greasy mane, she was hairless, and her black flesh looked glossy and slick like the skin of a waterlogged corpse. Every few seconds, like the queen of some hive of gigantic insects, she disgorged from her posterior a luminescent green egg slightly larger than a minotaur’s fist. Winged, pony-like creatures hovered beneath her, catching the eggs and taking them to a hollow where they vomited viscous goo and planted the eggs in it. The goo quickly hardened, becoming like the material of the cliff.

The monstrous queen held in her four legs another creature, wingless and slightly larger than the workers buzzing around her. With thin, needle-like fangs, she dug into this creature’s neck and drew forth greenish-yellow blood, which she licked up with a quick, pink tongue.

As he watched in horrified fascination, Tungsten Steve realized that the flesh was peeling away from the queen’s limbs. He could see her tendons and sinews exposed in several places, and he could even see all the way through some of the holes in her legs.

She gazed down at him with large, slitted pupils as she continued to lick eagerly at the blood on her victim’s throat.

“Ah,” she said in a smooth voice somehow both repulsive and alluring, “you’re awake. How do you feel, my little minotaur?”

“Like Hell,” he answered.

Giggling, she bit deeper into her victim’s neck and sucked, producing a nauseous gurgle. Her body expelled another egg, though she didn’t appear to notice. She licked her fangs and said, “Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

“I am Queen Chrysalis of the changelings.”

“I’ve heard of you. You tried to marry Prince Shining Armor.”

She giggled again. “Oh, yes. My swarm was going to feed on all the love in Equestria. I admit, though, that I was relieved when the marriage didn’t go through: I don’t really see the point of having a mate I can’t eat afterwards.” She dropped the desiccated corpse she held, and one of her workers carried it away.

“Where am I?”

“Why, you’re in Hoofington, of course. The town is now an antechamber of Tartarus.”

Tungsten Steve tried to move his arms, but something bit into his wrists. “Let me guess, Shining Armor told you to go to Hell, and you took him literally.”

“He threw me into Hell. In so doing, he brought about his destruction and all of Equestria’s.” Chrysalis undulated her body, dislodging herself from the green cliff. Unfolding four ragged wings, she flew to Tungsten Steve and placed a hoof against his cheek. Her hoof felt strangely porous, almost gelatinous.

“My dear, dear minotaur.” She licked her fangs. “Do you know the history of your people?”

“Yes, I know it. Every darn pony in Equestria wants to hang it over my head.”

“In ancient times, long before the ponies settled Equestria, three creatures crossed over from another world and tried to live here, not understanding what a dangerous place this can be. An enchanted bull raped one of them, and the result was you. How does that make you feel?”

“It has nothing to do with me.”

“Doesn’t it? What do you think? Do the sins of the fathers taint their children? Can you feel unbridled passions welling up in that big, handsome chest of yours?” She slid her hoof down his neck and onto his breast.

He tried to pull back from her touch. “Keep your hooves off me.”

“Mm, feisty, aren’t you? I like it when my males struggle a bit.”

“What do you want with me, witch?”

“It’s quite simple. Since my damnation began, the fallen gods have taught me many things. All beings in the universe are neatly arranged in a hierarchy: the pure and eternal act of existence is at the top, and the grossest material beings are at the bottom--a place for everything and everything in its place. The lords of Hell are on a simple mission: they wish to reverse the order. As a perversion of nature, you are their natural ally. You are going to recruit the minotaurs to our cause.”

“You can go ahead and torture me because the answer is no.”

“Oh, I’m not going to torture you. We can be much nastier than that.”

Two changelings with vicious grins on their muzzles dragged in Bossy. The cow had heavy chains around her neck and legs. Deep gashes crisscrossed her back. She looked sick and weak, and her fur was missing in patches. Blood ran down her sides. Quivering, she looked up at Tungsten Steve and lowed pitiably.

He tried again to free his arms. Warm blood trickled from his wrists as he tugged against the restraints. “Let her go!” he shouted.

“Are you fond of this cow?” Chrysalis asked. She licked his chest. “Oh, yes. You are fond of her. I can taste it.”

She backed away from him and gestured to another changeling, who brought her a long piece of iron, its tip glowing red. Chrysalis tapped a hoof against it, producing a sizzling sound and a sour stench. “Yes, that’s hot.” She held the iron before Bossy’s face. The cow stared at it in silence for a moment before releasing a loud, staccato bellowing.

“Stop!” Tungsten Steve yelled. “You want to hurt somepony, hurt me instead! Leave her alone!”

“Join us,” Chrysalis said.

“No!”

“Hmm, what do you think?” Chrysalis moved the glowing tip of iron back and forth in front of Bossy. “Should I put out her right eye first? Or her left? Should I start somewhere else and work up to the eyes? How about her udders? That might be amusing.”

Tungsten Steve bounced up and down in his chains. The blood poured thick and fast down his arms, but still he wasn’t free.

“All right,” he said, lowering his chin to his chest. “All right--”

“Tungsten Steve,” Bossy whispered.

He looked up. Tears streamed down Bossy’ cheeks. “Whatever ya do,” she said, “don’t betray Inkie.”

At the name, his heart broke, and tears started from his own eyes. He relaxed in his bonds and smiled. “Don’t you worry, Bossy, I won’t. You heard her, Your Majesty: you can torture both of us, but the answer is still no.”

Chrysalis threw the hot iron aside and nodded to her workers. “Take the cow to Tirek. He’ll know what to do with her.” As they dragged Bossy away, Chrysalis flew up in front of Tungsten Steve again. “I was hoping you wouldn’t force me to this.”

She disgorged another egg, this one smaller than the others. She caught it in her front hooves and held it up before him.

“This is one of my unfertilized eggs.” With her fangs, she peeled away the top of the egg’s elastic shell, and its contents bubbled out like pus from a gangrenous wound. She placed it against his lips. “Suck it.”

A cloying, sweet flavor spread into his mouth. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was, and he pulled the moisture into his throat before he thought of the consequences.

A fire lit in his stomach and a hammer pounded in his skull. He knew it must be a drug, but he couldn’t stop sucking. With a rubbery squeak, the egg contracted as he greedily swallowed its contents. He craned his neck and tipped his head back, trying to catch the last drops. Chrysalis laughed.

Tossing aside the egg’s empty husk, she darted out her tongue and licked foam from his lips. “Good, isn’t it?”

Tungsten Steve could feel his heart beating hard and slow, pumping the drug through his body. With each pulse, some of his pain disappeared. He slumped in his chains. His mind turned to fog, and a wave of bliss caught him and carried him away. Bright colors danced in his eyes, soothing him. He was dimly aware that Chrysalis had pressed her body against his, but he paid her no mind; he floated in happiness, dead to the world.

Her words echoed in his head, most of their meaning lost: “You see, my little minotaur, I am queen of Hell, and the powers of both agony and ecstasy are in my hoof. If you do what I tell you, I can make damnation almost pleasant.”

Princess Celestia locked the gilded doors of her suite and pulled the chintz curtains on her bay windows. She checked the walk-in closets and the side rooms to make sure no servants were lurking about. Once she was certain she was alone, she walked into her parlor. Eagerly licking her lips, she lowered herself onto a velvet chaise longue and magicked open a complicated lock on the cabinet where she kept her shameful secret.

She was a princess, an immortal, and the ponies saw her as a goddess, but she had dark needs that only one thing could satisfy. All around Equestria, certain specialists, sworn to secrecy, produced what she desired, and smugglers delivered it to the castle in the dead of the night. Only a few trusted officials were aware of what the smugglers brought to the princess or of what she did in her rooms during the early hours of the morning after she raised the sun.

On a wheeled table inside the cabinet stood two large cakes, each decorated with elaborate piping, flowers, and garnishes of marzipan. At the sight of them, Celestia’s heart pounded and her mouth watered. She inhaled deeply, taking in their aroma.

With a knife and server, she carefully cut a thin slice from each cake and set the slices on a plate. Levitating the plate into the air, she used a magicked fork to take a small bite from each slice.

Celestia closed her eyes and considered as the flavors spread across her tongue. The first cake was carrot, one of her favorites, spiced with cinnamon and clove. The cream cheese frosting complemented it nicely, though it was a shade too sweet. The other cake was chiffon and very moist, but a little too airy for her tastes. Its mint icing was to die for, but a creamy frosting with sliced fruit might have been more appropriate.

With tiny, ladylike nibbles, Celestia ate both slices, savoring all the while, allowing the sensations to imprint themselves forever on her memory.

When she finished, she set down the plate and fork and levitated a napkin, with which she delicately patted her mouth. Then, for a full minute, she gazed down at the cakes in contemplation.

At the end of that minute, her resolve broke, and she dove in.

She went for the carrot cake first, inhaling a full third of it in one bite. So quickly and forcefully did she attack it that some of the frosting went up her nose.

Snorting and snuffling, she turned to the chiffon cake, but realized she hadn’t chewed properly and had a chunk of carrot cake stuck in her esophagus. She pranced around the room, searching for something to wash it down. Finding nothing, she ran to her bedroom and guzzled water out her washbasin, spilling most of it down her breast.

A knock came at the front door. She magicked a washcloth, wiped her face, took a deep breath, composed herself as best she could, walked to the door, and opened it a crack.

“What is it? I thought I said I was never to be disturbed at this time of day.”

On the other side of the door, Chief Gelding Parsnip bowed low. “A thousand pardons, Your Highness, but I’m afraid this is most urgent. Doctor Inkamena Pie, mayor of Hoofington, has brought dire news.”

Celestia paused. “I’ll see her.” She opened the door and stepped out. “What news has she--?”

She stopped speaking when Parsnip quietly cleared his throat. “Begging Her Highness’s pardon again, but Her Highness has cake frosting in her royal mane.”

Without a word, Celestia slipped back into her chamber, returned to the washbasin, and rinsed out the frosting. After looking herself over carefully to be sure she had removed all evidence of her morning’s extravagance, she left her rooms and followed the chief gelding, who led her toward one of the guest suites.

“I’m afraid she’s taken ill, Your Highness. I thought it best not to make her wait in your audience chamber.”

“That’s quite all right, Parsnip. Have you sent for a doctor?”

“Oh, yes. The doctor should be on his way soon.”

“Should I know ahead of time what happened to her?”

“I’ll tell you what I can, Your Highness, but I think you’ll want the details straight from the horse’s mouth.”

Inkie sat against a pile of overstuffed pillows in a plush four-poster featherbed. A lavender silk canopy hung over her head, and the air smelled of rose petals and clove. A narrow, arched window near the bed was open, and, every once in a while, a cool breeze blew in and coaxed a tinkle from the crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling.

Inkie stared down at her front hooves, turning them over, examining them from every angle. For a mare, she had thick walls and deep cups, evidence of the hard farm labor in which she spent her youth. Her parents had worked her and her sisters to the bone, but only because they were struggling to make enough money to send their children to college and give them better lives. It had worked: Inkie became an engineer, and Blinkie became a successful optometrist. Only Pinkie never made anything of herself.

Inkie poked the toe of one hoof against the frog of the other. Ponies had learned to do remarkable things with these blunt, clumsy appendages, yet the limitations of hooves were painfully obvious. In college, Inkie had with fascination watched the griffons, minotaurs, satyrs, and other creatures blessed with opposable thumbs, had seen the delicate work of which they were capable; she had sweated and labored to accomplish in hours by hoof and teeth what they could do in seconds with claws or hands. She came to hate them, or at least most of them. More than that, she hated the unicorns who could manipulate objects with levitation spells. Again and again, she watched students of middling talent outperform her because she was limited by her hooves.

One day, she would change that. One day, electricity would replace magic and the unicorns would be reduced to purveyors of cheap parlor tricks. One day, everypony would have hands.

She had been designing and redesigning her hand simulator for years, yet she had never completed it, always finding excuses to work on other projects. Perhaps, if she had worked diligently on the mechanical hands until they were finished, she could have accomplished more. Perhaps, with hands, she could have built a better Warhorse or a better Pegasaucer. Perhaps Ironsides would still be alive.

She raised her front hooves before her face and stared at them in disgust. “You’re useless,” she whispered.

The paneled oak door swung in. In the doorway, looking tall and regal with her mist-like hair drifting in a magical wind, stood Princess Celestia. A golden tiara sat upon her forehead, and her long forelock fell across one eye. The other eye gazed at Inkie; in it, Inkie could all at once see ancient wisdom, eternal youth, overwhelming sternness, and infinite compassion. Looking Celestia in the eye was like diving headlong into the ocean, and, for a moment, Inkie feared she might drown.

Inkie lowered her hooves and ducked her head. “Your Highness.”

Celestia’s gilded bell boots clicked against the marble floor as she walked toward the bed. “I know you have been through great trials, child. I would leave you to rest if I could, but I must hear every detail of what you have seen.”

A lump formed in Inkie’s throat. She smoothed the bed covers and bit her lip. Tears ran down her cheeks. She trembled when Celestia drew near and stood beside her.

“Can you tell me?” Celestia asked.

“Oh, Princess!” Inkie fell against Celestia’s neck and wept. Celestia lowered her head and pressed her muzzle against Inkie’s crest. Her face buried in Celestia’s soft, flowing mane, Inkie blubbered. “Colonel Ironsides, Bossy, Tungsten Steve, everypony, they’re all dead! And I couldn’t save them. I was useless--”

“You did all anypony could have asked of you, child.”

“I should have done more! I ran like a coward--”

“Shh. You came to warn the rest of us. I don’t condemn you, child. Nopony does.”

Inkie pulled back and looked again into Celestia’s eye. “Princess . . .” Inkie frowned. “Is that . . . is that cake frosting on your tiara?”

Celestia snapped her head up. “Never mind that, Inkie. Just tell me what happened in Hoofington.”

Before he fell from high Heaven, Asmoday had been Hymen, god of marriage. He had received worship and praise in every town across the world. He had anointed every virgin bride, placed his blessing on every marriage bower, made fruitful every womb. Yet the time came when, wishing to raise his station, he had joined the ranks of the rebellion and uttered those fatal words, “Non serviam!” For a year and a day, he had tumbled through space like a falling star until dropping at last into the world’s lowest pit. With his face turned from the good, he now scrabbled ever downward toward good’s opposite, mere nothingness. He hated everything he formerly loved; what he had once blessed, he now sought to pervert.

Asmoday crept unseen through Canterlot. He slid through gutters, pulled himself through drainpipes, slinked across rooftops, and scrabbled under ledges. He was jittery. This was the first time in several millennia that he had traveled the surface world with his corporeal form. He could render himself invisible, or nearly so: anypony who looked directly at him would usually mistake him for some other object, perhaps a shadow on a wall, a lurking alley cat, or a rustle of wind through a bush. Still, he was nervous. If anypony saw him for what he was, his plans were ruined.

As he crawled through the city’s muck, he panted, hissed, snarled, and whispered to himself an endless stream of disconnected prattle. “Maybe it’s not so bad. I didn’t think he woke up. I’m still a good girl. She wanted it anyway. A little won’t hurt. But I need it so bad. Don’t judge me.”

Though nopony saw his passage, many felt it nonetheless. Soldiers patrolling the streets made bawdy comments to passing mares as they always did, but now their catcalls had especial vigor. A lover’s quarrel in a street-side café grew louder and sharper. A suitor wooing his lady in a park suddenly grabbed her hoof with a ferocity neither he nor she expected. An undefinable restlessness hung in the air, as if a storm were brewing but refusing to break.

At last, Asmoday found what he wanted. He stood in a narrow street before a brownstone house sharing walls with the houses on either side. He shifted back and forth between his feet as he stared up at the second story. With a boil-covered wrist, he wiped spittle from his chin. His stream of words continued uninterrupted. “I like it that way. She asked for it. To each his own. Maybe now you’ll listen.”

He grabbed a rainspout and hauled himself up. “I won’t get caught. No one saw. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Transforming for a moment into a snake, he slithered through a crack under a partly open window and found himself in a dim bedroom. A pair of crossed swords hung on a wall, and a few fencing trophies stood on a dresser. The bedclothes were drab, but the lacy curtains on the windows indicated a recent attempt to give the room a feminine touch. Buried under the covers on the bed, a pink mare lay wrapped in the limbs of a white unicorn stallion.

Here, then, was his target. Asmoday perched on the walnut headboard like a vulture and dug his teeth deep into his own knuckles to keep himself quiet. He stared down at the mare and gnawed until his flesh turned raw and his hand bled.

So this was the new princess. Her long hair, striped with purple, lavender, and pink, cascaded across her pillow. Her eyes were closed, and her delicate lashes trembled slightly as she dreamed. The tip of her long unicorn’s horn bobbed slowly and almost imperceptibly with each breath she took.

Asmoday reached out and touched her mind, but then recoiled and bit deeper into his hand to keep himself from screaming. He rocked back and forth on the headboard, tasting his own salt blood as it gushed into his mouth.

Her mind was like a clear light, and it burned him. He saw nothing in it but a pure, selfless love extending out in all directions, encompassing everything. Retching, he turned away from her. There was nothing here he could exploit. Already his mission was a failure.

So overcome was he by the horror of touching Cadence’s mind, it took him a moment to remember that she was not alone in the bed. If he couldn’t touch her directly, it was still possible to despoil her by means of somepony close to her. Coming back to his senses, he turned to the stallion.

Cadence’s mind was pure, open, and defenseless. This stallion’s mind, however, was like a fortress: Asmoday detected high walls and parapets constructed of such things as honor, duty, chivalry, bravery, and respect for elders and traditions. It was a well-guarded mind, its baser appetites almost entirely hidden behind ramparts of discipline and virtue. Still, it had vulnerabilities, and Asmoday has little doubt he could find them: any mind so carefully guarded had to be susceptible to some vice it was attempting to keep out.

He flipped through the stallion’s memories, looking for youthful indiscretions or other items of regret. He found little: when only a colt, this fellow had, without offering help, watched a friend being beaten on the playground. He had drunk too much sarsaparilla on a few occasions, especially at his bachelor party. He had uttered some foolish words here and there. Of vices he could exploit, Asmoday found few: this stallion had been basking for too long in the light of the princess he had married, having apparently known her since his youth; most of his follies were burned out of him.

Then Asmoday stumbled upon something unexpected. He blinked in surprise and chuckled to himself. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Oh, yes, I can work with this--”

He fell silent when he realized Cadence was no longer asleep. The princess had turned her head and now stared in his direction.

Asmoday held completely still. She had probably sensed his presence, but it was possible she couldn’t see him.

“I know you’re there,” she whispered. Her expression was serene.

Asmoday felt sweat run down his face.

Cadence’s horn pulsed with energy. “I can heal you, you know.”

He swallowed a lump. She couldn’t heal him; his one act of rebellion was final and irrevocable. Still, he had no wish to be burned again by her light. He glanced to the crack in the window through which he had slunk.

She lifted her head higher and pointed her horn at him. Its glow intensified.

He made a flying leap and caught the windowsill. Turning again to a snake, he slipped through the crack and dropped to the street below.

Smarting from the fall, he chattered to himself as he slinked away. Destroying this Princess Cadence would be no easy task.

Cadence stared at the wall above the bed. She had felt a presence there. As part of her special gift, she could sense distortions of love, and she had just now felt one more desperate, twisted, and lonely than any she had ever felt before, a craving that had degenerated into a seeking after perversity for its own sake.

Just as quickly, the presence was gone, but it left behind echoes of pain rippling across her heart. She lay in consternation, trying to imagine who or what she could have sensed. It disturbed her so much that it was several minutes before she realized she was lying in Shining Armor’s limbs. She sat up quickly.

“Shining, shouldn’t you be on duty?”

He snuggled closer and murmured, “I have the day off, remember?”

“Oh. I forgot.” She lay back down. “Did you--? No, never mind.”

“Did I remember you want me to clean the rain gutters today? Yes, I did.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to ask, but I’m glad you remembered.”

“What were you going to ask?”

“It’s rather silly.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Did you think somepony was in our bedroom just now?”

Shining Armor raised his head. “What?”

“I said it was silly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure, really. I thought I sensed something. Maybe it was next door. Or across town. It just . . . it just felt very sad, is all.”

He stroked a hoof through her particolored mane. “Your special talent really is remarkable.”

“A gift for love? Sometimes I’m not sure what to do with it.”

He pressed against her and nipped her neck. “I have one idea.”

She playfully nudged him back, but then pulled away and climbed out of bed. “I’m afraid I’m out of season at the moment, so you’ll have to hold your horses.”

“There’s only one horse I’m interested in holding.”

“Cute.” She sat on a stool before her vanity mirror and brushed her mane. “I really should get going.”

“What’s the rush?”

She rolled her eyes and grinned sheepishly. “Royal duties. Auntie says it’s time I took a hoof in running things.”

Shining Armor stretched his forelegs and rolled out of bed. “What is she having you do?”

“I think she wants me to begin by sorting her mail.”

“Ouch.”

“Have to start somewhere.” She magicked a golden tiara, set it on her head, and peered into the mirror to make sure it was straight. “I really do love the tiara, though.”

As she looked in the mirror, her eyes moved from the crown to her face. She sighed faintly. “Shining, have I . . . aged?”

He walked up behind her and gave her a lopsided grin. “This is one of those questions with no right answer, isn’t it?”

She laughed. “You know what I mean. Do I look like I’ve aged at all?”

“Since when, exactly? Since we were children? Since our wedding?”

Since we started courting, say.”

“Considering that we started courting when we were teenagers--”

“You wish.”

“No, I’m pretty sure we were already an item in high school.”

“You have a vivid imagination, Shining Armor. Now stop dodging my question.”

He sat on the floor beside her stool and rested his head against her flank. “You’re still young, you know.”

“I know, but it worries me. I’m probably the only mare in Equestria who looks forward to getting gray hairs and age lines.”

“But if it turns out that you’re immortal, would that really be so bad?”

She leaned down and rubbed her nose against his. “I said I want to grow old with you, and I meant it. Besides, I’ve watched Auntie, and I don’t think immortality is exactly pleasant.”

“No, I guess not.” He paused. “If you are immortal, is your hair going to start doing that wavy thing?”

“I hope not. That would drive me nuts.” She looked again at her reflection. No, she didn’t appear to have aged visibly in the last few years, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Shining Armor was right: she was still young. “For the longest time, there were only two of them. Only two winged unicorns. Everypony assumed there would always be only two until I was born.” She unfolded a wing and stared at the long, pink feathers fading to purple at the tips. She rarely flew; her wings embarrassed her. “I still don’t understand what I am. I never have, and I’m afraid I never will. When I was small, I thought everything would become clear when I got my cutie mark, but my special talent only made me more confused.”

“Hey,” Shining Armor said, “we’re going to figure all of that out together.”

She folded the wing back in with a snap. “More than that, I’m worried because . . . well, you know.”

“Because you haven’t foaled.”

“Yes. I asked Auntie about it, but she’s never married. She said she just doesn’t know.”

He stood, placed a foreleg across her withers, and kissed her cheek. “Remember, I’m here for you.”

A pounding came from the door downstairs.

“I guess I have to get that,” Shining Armor said. He left the bedroom. Cadence followed; she stood on the stairs and watched as he walked through the front hall and unlatched the door. On the stoop stood a white, grim-faced pegasus in platinum armor.

The pegasus saluted smartly. “Captain Armor, sir.”

“Lieutenant Bladewing. At ease. What brings you here?”

“Princess Celestia has called an emergency council. She requests both you and your wife.” Bladewing looked over Shining Armor’s shoulder and met Cadence’s eyes. He dipped his head and nickered. “Your Highness.”

“What is it?” Cadence asked as she descended the stairs. “What’s happened?”

“Princess Celestia will explain everything,” Bladewing replied. “Please follow me.”

Most of Hoofington had burned, and black smoke still rose from the cinders. The few buildings still standing were splattered with blood and coated with the changelings’ green excretions. Hellbeasts, demons, and changelings crawled over the town like maggots writhing on a corpse.

At the edge of the destroyed village, Tirek sat on a portable throne. Under his right hand was a cloth bag that pulsed slowly like an enormous heart. He stroked the bag, gazing at it.

Chrysalis’s minions brought him a cow. The cow’s eyes were wide, and foam dripped from her lips. She scraped the ground and lowed.

With a sneer, Tirek pulled the bag’s drawstring. A black cloud of smoke poured from it. Howling like a powerful wind, the cloud snaked toward the cow and encircled her, spinning like a tornado. The cow screamed.

After the black cloud crawled back into its sack, the cow was gone: in her place, quivering on the ground, lay a misshapen gargoyle with crimson scales, twisted talons, and enormous compound eyes like an insect’s. The changelings grabbed this malformed monster and dragged it away.

“Enjoying yourself, Tirek?” hissed a silky voice. He looked over his shoulder to see Chrysalis hovering behind him.

“For the time being, but we must press the war before the ponies can organize.”

Chrysalis glared and flew around to face him. “We should not have invaded so soon. My swarm has not finished its preparations.”

“You told me your changelings had infiltrated every rank of the Equestrian Order and the royal guard.”

“They have. But I have not yet placed them in the secular government, and they have not yet been able to reach Luna.”

“It doesn’t matter. Subterfuge is your method, Your Majesty, but not mine.” He picked up the bag from the arm of the throne and petted it. “When I saw that you still possessed your magic even though you were damned, I wondered if my power, too, had followed me to Hell. It did. With this, I once covered the whole world in darkness. Even the cursed gate of Tartarus could not stand against it. Even Cerberus was powerless before me.” He waved at a monster lying at the base of his throne, a creature like a gigantic black praying mantis with three heads.

“Yet ponies once defeated this very power, Tirek. We should be more cautious. Both you and I lost to the ponies before because we moved too quickly.”

“The powers that defeated me are gone, Chrysalis. Dream Valley lies under a windigo-haunted glacier, the Rainbow Bridge is closed, the Rainbow of Light is lost, and my enemy Megan is long dead. When I walked this earth, the ponies were warriors used to defending their land. Now, as you said yourself, they are weak.”

“Yet their princesses are immortals, and they possess a weapon against which we’ve not been tested.”

“You mean these Elements of Harmony?”

“Yes. My minions have gathered intelligence: it seems the Elements have defeated a Draconequus, and you know that’s no easy feat.”

“I am aware of your ‘intelligence.’ I will soon ensure that the Elements of Harmony will not be a problem for us.”

Chrysalis glared. “How?”

Tirek said nothing.

She flew to him and laid a hoof against his cheek. “Really, Tirek--”

He slapped her away. “Don’t touch me, wench. I’ve seen how you treat your drones.”

She smiled and licked her fangs. “I love all my males, Tirek. They give their seed to continue our race, and then they give their bodies to feed mine so their offspring will be healthy. What could be wrong with that?”

“When this is over, Chrysalis, I’ll remember that you think males are to be used up and thrown away.”

She giggled.

“Speaking of which,” he said, “how go your attempts on that minotaur of yours?”

“He’ll come around.”

Tirek slowly moved the pulsing sack back and forth between his hands as if he were testing its weight. “You should let me turn him.”

“And make him into one of your mindless monstrosities? I could as easily hypnotize him with a spell, but we don’t need more beasts, Tirek. We need soldiers with minds. If that minotaur joins us, he can teach us to use those machines we’ve captured.”

“We’ll figure them out if we need them. Trust me to conduct this war.”

“You aren’t conducting it alone, you know. And don’t forget that my changelings are dying in battle.”

“No doubt that is why you are over-cautious. The fallen gods agree with me that we must move quickly, Your Majesty. In fact, Astaroth is already making our next move.”

Chrysalis’s face contorted. She hissed. “What move?”

Again, Tirek said nothing. He turned his face from her and leaned his chin on his fist.

In the midst of Canterlot Castle’s hundred spires stood a black tower of rough-hewn basalt. Modest in size, it was invisible from the street, hidden behind other, much grander towers. Aside from a row of narrow windows under its pointed roof, it was featureless. Few ponies, even of the castle staff, were willing to approach it. Occasionally, usually in the depths of night, terrifying black shapes flitted around its pinnacle. Sometimes, even on sunny days, black storm clouds circled it.

This was the home of the dark mistress of the moon, Luna, the Princess of the Night.

A winding, steep staircase led from the tower’s base to Luna’s high chamber. The narrow windows admitted little light. Black drapes hung on the walls like trappings from a dreary funeral. Covering the room's domed ceiling was a sheet of deep blue silk studded with exactly placed luminescent jewels perfectly imitating the stars of the sky. The floor was of black and green marble, set into which was a great brass pentagram encircled by the signs of the Zodiac, in turn encircled by the emblem of the Worm Ouroboros, symbol of time and mortality. Around the great pentagram stood silver candlesticks seven feet high, each holding an enormous tallow candle guttering with blue flame and acrid smoke. Against the walls stood bookshelves full of thick, hidebound tomes of ancient and forbidden lore. A heavy desk of oak stood against one wall, and on its top were rolls of parchment, an inkstand, an astrolabe, and an earth pony's skull holding a mostly melted beeswax candle.

Opposite the desk, Luna herself lounged amongst embroidered pillows on a daybed flanked by two silver censers smoking with olibanum. Over her head was a canopy of the same blue silk that covered the domed ceiling. Above the bed, mounted on the wall behind, was an enormous, finely detailed image of the moon, artfully contrived so that its glow matched the real moon's phase.

Princess Luna didn’t get out much. Since her return to Equestria, she had learned to speak with modern diction while in public and to tolerate the relaxed manners of the modern court, and she had even made a few friends, but many ponies still found her intimidating, so she spent most of her time alone. A thousand years of solitary exile had turned her into a recluse.

Though she was officially coregent, she had few political duties. Celestia had run the kingdom competently during Luna’s imprisonment and continued to do so after her return. Luna occupied her time mostly with studies: she was an expert in esoteric lore and arcane magic; over the last few months, she had penned three monographs on the curious mythology of the Paleo-Pony Period.

Recently, she had discovered a taste for romance novels. She had just now finished Withers Heights and was about to start on Ponies and Prejudice when a sharp rap came at the window.

Closing the book, Luna rose from the bed, walked to the window, and opened the latch. One of her personal guards climbed into the room. He had a dark gray coat; his eyes were yellow with slitted pupils, his ears were tufted, and, unlike those of a regular pegasus, his wings were hairless and black like a bat’s. After pulling himself off the thick stone windowsill, he tugged at his breastcollar to adjust his loose, slovenly armor. He grinned, showing long, sharp, and decidedly carnivorous teeth.

“What brings thee to my lair, Shivers?” Luna asked.

“Oy,” Shivers answered, “gotta get outta me stall sometimes, eh, Princess? But them hoity-toity Canterlot unicorns don’t much care to see us wraith pegasi prancin’ in their pretty white streets, do they?”

Luna smiled, but turned away from him. “Is this a social call?” She walked back to her daybed and stretched out on it. “My time is most valuable.”

Shivers chuckled. “Aye, ye look real busy, eh? Don’t get uppity with me, Yer Royal Worshipfulness. We wraiths ain’t impressed by you princess types.”

“That’s why I chose you for my personal guard. Now, wouldst thou care to explain thy visit?”

“Aye, aye. Don’t get yer tack in a twist. That sister o’ yours wants a word with ye, so she sent me up.”

Luna shot him a sharp glance. “Thou couldst have said so a little more quickly.” She stood again.

Shivers bent his knees in an exaggerated bow. “Duty discharged, so now it’s back to me cups.”

“It’s still early morning.”

“Aye, two hours since the sun rose an’ I’m still sober. Two good hours wasted. So long, Yer Worship.” Shivers squeezed back through the window, spread his bat-wings, and jumped into the air.

Luna found her silver bell boots and her black tiara under the daybed. She slipped them on and turned toward the staircase, but she started when she saw a black mist gathering in the center of the room.

She stared at it for a moment, blinking, and then sucked in her breath. “An invocation spell? But how--?”

She winced and covered her eyes when a bright light flashed and loud laughter filled the room. Lowering her hoof, she saw, standing in the middle of the pentagram on the floor, an enormous beast with the heads of a lion, an ox, and a goat. Around its body, it wore a heavy, black cloak.

“Hello, Princess. Do you remember me?”

She swallowed. “Astaroth.”

“That’s right.” He stretched out a hand toward her, but his hand stopped when it reached the edge of the pentagram. Astaroth smiled. “Still know your old tricks, I see. I cannot cross the line of this pentangle.”

“I did not invoke thee. Return to thy abyss. I abjure thee by Senoy, Sansenoy--”

Astaroth halted her incantation with a wave. “You cannot banish me. You do not have the right.”

“And you cannot harm me. I am warded.”

“Oh?” Astaroth reached under his cloak and pulled out a heavy, black book. He opened it to the middle and showed her the pages. “Here is your name written in foal’s blood. According to this, you belong to me.”

“No longer, Astaroth.”

“Your name is not blotted out. Until it is, you are mine.”

“My dark powers are gone from me, for I have been cleansed by the Elements of Harmony.”

“Then the Elements forgot something when they were cleaning.” Astaroth snapped the book shut. “Don’t you remember the things you did in a chamber much like this one? Don’t you remember the horrible things I asked you to do so that I might give you all you desired?”

Luna shuddered. “I was different.”

“Liar! You merely followed your wants. Nopony forced you! Listen to me now, Princess, for I offer you a choice. We have set up a throne in Tartarus for you, but we have also forged a chain. You can have the one or the other, but you cannot escape your doom. Will you be my princess or my slave?”

“My wards hold. I will be nothing to you.”

Astaroth smiled. “It may surprise you, but I can be patient. Beware, when somepony has a debt like yours, she often finds the collector at the door when she least expects.”

Astaroth threw open his cloak. Hunkered between his legs was a shriveled demon with a gaunt body and a gaping mouth.

Gasping, Luna took a step backwards. “No! Moloch!”

Moloch reared up on his spindly legs. “Do you remember me, Luna? Do you remember how you filled my gullet? Why have you not fed me for a millennium? Where are the offerings you used to make to me?”

“I will never!” Luna cried. “Never--!”

“Let me remind you,” Moloch said. He opened his wide mouth even wider until his lower jaw reached the floor. Out of the black pit of his maw, he spewed a torrent of blood. Luna shrieked and fell to the floor as the blood gushed over her, washing into her eyes and mouth.

Moloch, his jaw dripping red, cocked his head and uttered a hoarse laugh. “The blood of all the victims you gave to me, Nightmare Moon. I return it to you.”

Astaroth hid Moloch in his cloak again. “Farewell, Princess. I will see you again soon, and when I do, there will be no magical barriers between us.” Smoked swirled around his feet, and with a flash of light, he disappeared.

Luna lay on the floor in the pool of blood and trembled as she wept.